


The Cryptographer Affair

by ZeeMo59



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Bacon, Cabins, Canada, Cryptographer, Dresses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, England (Country), F/M, Gaby might be in a relationship too?, Napoleon or Illya/Reader (to be revealed), Sass, Spies & Secret Agents, Suits, THRUSH, Tranquilizers, UNCLE - Freeform, Unrequited Love, Weapons, arms dealers, mines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeeMo59/pseuds/ZeeMo59
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Y/n and her parents, a brilliant German scientist and an undercover CIA agent, fled Nazi Germany when she was only seven years old, leaving her cousin Gaby behind to endure Hitler's regime and then the Soviet occupation of East Germany. Years later, y/n, now a CIA agent like her mother, is reunited with her cousin on a mission for U.N.C.L.E, the group the rescued Gaby from the other side of the Berlin Wall. Of course, with her stubborn disposition and lingering guilt over leaving her cousin behind, y/n immediately clashes with Gaby and her two cohorts, Napoleon Solo (whom y/n also has a past with) and Illya Kuryakin (whom she distrusts purely because he's from the U.S.S.R.). If Waverly has a say in it though, they will make an U.N.C.L.E. agent out of y/n yet!</p>
<p>Rated mature for washy language! xD</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in ages, and the first one I have done for the Man from UNCLE fandom, which roughly translates to: Please let me know how I'm doing, but try not to be too harsh (comments [especially constructive criticism] and kudos are always appreciated!).
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

  “Gaby!” you grin maniacally as you greet your cousin, arms swinging wide before closing around her in a strong embrace. “It is so good to see you! It has been far too long.”

            “Indeed it has,” she offers a coy smile in return, grasping your shoulders and holding you an arm’s length away to give you a good once over “we were what? Seven, the last time we saw each other.”

            “That sounds about right,” your grin fades ever so slightly as you recall the circumstances of that last meeting, but you keep talking. “A lot has changed since then. You look well.” And in truth she does, wearing a form-fitting yellow sundress that is cinched in all the right places with a pair of almost obnoxiously large sunglasses perched on her forehead. Her chocolate hair gleams in the sunlight filtering through the windows at Gatwick Airport, and it is very hard to believe that a little over two years ago she was stuck behind the Iron Curtain. You suppose you have the two men standing just a few feet behind her to thank for that. One of them is familiar to you, but the other is complete stranger.

            “Thank you, y/n, you’re too kind.” She turns to the men, gesturing to the shorter, dark-haired man first, “This is –”

            “Napoleon Solo,” you finish for her, eyeing the other CIA agent with as much distrust as he eyes you with. “We’ve met.”

Solo scoffs.

            “Met implies some sort of personal interaction, Teller. If I recall correctly, all you ever did was point a gun at my head and tell me when to move, and when to not.”

            “You lived at my discretion, Solo. There is no interaction more personal than that. Except for maybe the time you fucked my partner. They dismissed her after that, you know. I’ve been partner-less since.” His brow puckers, then relaxes as realization strikes his features.

            “Monahan was your partner?” he asks incredulously, probably recalling images of the buxom blonde from his memory and comparing them to you. There is no doubt in your mind that Monahan, who was always too good to you, told Solo that her partner was just as amazing as she was. In your skills as an agent, you most definitely were, but looks were another matter entirely.

            You give a curt nod, turning to the other man as you feign indifference to the glare Gaby is shooting at Solo.

            “You must be Kuryakin, then,” you state, tilting your head upwards to meet the behemoth’s baby blue eyes as you extend your hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Unless you make it otherwise.”

            Kuryakin stares back at you with a cold precision that makes you regret offering your hand to the KGB agent. You were told he tolerates Solo, but never stopped to think how he would react to another American agent. A palpable silence hangs between the two of you while the bustle around you continues on. You are just about to withdraw your hand when Gaby intervenes.

            “Illya!” she slaps his arm, and its then you notice the ring on her hand, “Be nice to my cousin!” He inclines his head to look at her, his expression softening. You catch a hint of guilt and longing in it, buts it disappears when he turns to you and engulfs your entire hand in his.

            “A pleasure,” he grunts, then releases you. “I will go get taxi for the trip back,” he tells his partners, and then stalks into the crowd. It is easy to follow his progress as he towers over everyone, and you track him until he passes through the airport doors.

            “You’ll have to forgive Peril,” Napoleon interrupts your eye-stalking. “He doesn’t warm up to people too quickly, let alone anyone who is ex-CIA.”

            “I’m on loan to U.N.C.L.E., Solo, as are you. You would do best to remember that, or Sanders will drag you back state-side by the balls.”

            Even the suave Napoleon Solo does not have a comeback for that, causing another uncomfortable silence to hang in the air. Gaby saves you yet again.

            “Do you have any bags to pick up cousin?” she inquires, tone just a little too innocent. You shake your head.

            “No, I figured I could buy all the clothing I needed once I arrived in London.”

            “Then let’s not waste any more time!” she exclaims, instructing Napoleon to return to London with Kuryakin before pinching the sleeve of your grey suit coat and dragging you away miraculously fast for a woman in high heels.

            “Is this usually what you wear, y/n?” she asks as the two of you move through the throng of people to the exit with practiced ease.

            “Yes?”

            She tsks, looking you over before hauling you into the back of a cab, much to the objection of the pasty-skinned French couple who were just about enter it. You slam the door shut, and ignore their cries of “Mange de la merde,” and “Va te faire mettre,” as you are whisked away. You hope your cousin doesn’t understand them, but her crinkled nose suggests otherwise.

            “Well, we will have to change that,” she resumes your conversation, “The boys like their women well-dressed.”

            “Well-dressed isn’t always practical.” She cracks a smile at your response, her laugh like wind chimes as she caresses your arm.

            “You will fit in here just fine, y/n,” she tells you as her chuckles subside. You wince at the statement and brace yourself for your own honesty.

            “I’m not here to fit in, Gaby. I’m here to complete a mission, and then return to the States. Seeing you here, safe, sound, and apparently happy, is just an added benefit of this particular assignment.” And just like that, her smile is gone, and she studies you with wise brown eyes.

            “You know, out of the two of us, I would have pegged myself to become the more bitter.”

            You run your left foot back and forth nervously across the floor mat, the world outside the cab suddenly becoming much more interesting than the one in it.

            “I was expecting you to hate me,” you admit eventually, drawing little patterns on the window with your index finger to avoid looking at the perfection that is your cousin.

            “How could I hate you when what happened was not your fault?” she asks your back, surprise tinging that beautiful sing-song voice.

            “I feel like it was my fault,” you tell her, checking on the bearded cabby from the corner of your eye to make sure he is watching the road and not the two of you.

            “It wasn’t,” she states simply, with that accent that no longer comes naturally to you.

            You hesitate, not sure if you should tell her about the guilt that you have been burdened with all these years. About how you thought she was dead in a gutter somewhere in East Germany because of you. About how you punched your superior in the face when you found out they had purposely put Solo on the mission to rescue her instead of you. About how you had ached for two whole years waiting to see her whole and in one piece, crying from excitement when you found out your next assignment was with U.N.C.L.E.

            You decide against it, and instead give her an empty lie.

            “I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself as soon as I got thirty hits I would post the next chapter, so here it is!

            Gaby takes you to all the high end stores in London, meticulously picking out articles of clothing (mostly dresses, to your chagrin) that will appease Solo and Kuryakin’s apparently burning need for their women to be outfitted with modern, stylish attire. At one point, you comment that she has forsaken the practicality the two of you were indoctrinated with as children, and she blushes before dismissing it with a wave of her manicured hand, handing you a pink dress instead of delving further into the topic. Fine, if she doesn’t want to talk about that…

            “So, what’s with the ring Gaby?” you call over the dressing room curtain, pulling the abhorrent pink thing off its hanger and holding it up to your chest. “Don’t tell me you’re engaged to one of those spies.”

            “You seem to forget that I’m a spy as well, cousin. But no, I’m not engaged to Illya or Napoleon. During the mission that followed my extraction from Germany I had to pretend I was Illya’s fiancée. He gave me this ring to keep up appearances.”

            “So why haven’t you gotten rid of it? It’s been two years,” you ask, wiggling to get the dress to settle on you just right. It’s mortifyingly short (much like the rest of them), and you resist the urge to throw something at the woman in the mirror gaping back at you in horror. This one, this one is the last straw.

            “Illya and I have had an… interesting relationship,” she answers as you pull back the curtain and stroll out in all your ridiculousness. “He likes me but… he just has too much baggage. After being oppressed for so many years I want someone I can be free with, not someone whose past haunts their present.” You catch the end of her frown, as you push back the curtain. She lights up immediately upon looking at you.

            “This, this is the one,” she hails one of the attendants, and then gives you another cursory glance before telling the petite woman, “We’ll take it. She won’t need the suit anymore,” she motions to the dressing room.

            “Oh no,” you snatch her wrist before she can leave you. “I am not buying this. I have bought all those other silly outfits, but this one is the last straw, Gabriele Teller. I will not waste my money on this atrocity.”

            “Fine,” she sniffs, shaking off your grip and continuing on. “I will buy it for you. And these, as well,” she shoves a pair of strappy white sandals into your grasp, and you hold them up to eye level in order to give them a proper look of disbelief. “Hurry up! We are already late!”

            You don the shoes quickly, and then scurry after her like an obedient lap dog, nearly tripping because of the contraptions strapped to your feet.

 

            “So, you are the other Miss Teller,” the middle-aged man opposite of Kuryakin and Solo at the desk greets as you and Gaby rush into the quaint office at U.N.C.L.E headquarters. “It is a pleasure,” he stands and offers his hand, which you accept with grace despite being frazzled at how late the two of you actually are.

            “The pleasure is all mine, sir. I was honored to hear that you requested my assistance for this mission.”

            “There was really no other choice, Miss Teller. Your resume is very impressive, and when I found out you were our Gaby’s long lost cousin, well I just had to give you a trial run with the team. We’ve been looking for a fourth agent for this particular group for a while now, and you seem to fit the bill. Now, to business,” he gestures to the seats Kuryakin and Solo have just vacated, and are offering to you and Gaby. When Gaby sits in front of Solo, you are forced to do the same with Kuryakin, annoyance flitting across your face when his hands continue to grip the back of the chair after you seated.

            “As I’m sure you all know, the United States has authorized full-scale military intervention in the Vietnam conflict after the Gulf of Tonkin incident. U.N.C.L.E. of course, will not take sides in the struggle, as it has not in the past few years. However, it appears that a band of rogue arms dealers of unknown origin is trying to spice up the mix, so to speak. They are selling unique armaments and WMD’s to the highest bidder, and I have to say that it would be quite a shame if one of these armaments caused the unnecessary deaths of thousands of soldiers and civilians. Especially when the group seems set on having their next purchasers be a group of high-ranking U.S. military officers with questionable scruples,” his fixes his gaze on Solo, and then you, as though you two are to blame for the poor morals of these military leaders. You are sorely tempted to mention that when it comes down to it, you do not bleed red, white, and blue.

            “How do we dismantle organization when we do not know its origin?” Kuryakin rumbles behind you.

            “That,” Waverly drawls, straightening his glasses, “is where y/n comes in. Along with her field capabilities, y/n is an exceptionally capable cryptographer, trained in Nazi and American codes and methods by her father, Dr. Lambrett Teller, after he escaped the Nazi regime with y/n and her mother, one of the CIA’s most prominent agents who was working undercover in Germany at the time. Neither y/n nor I are allowed to name her, but I feel this is the appropriate time to applaud your impressive pedigree as well, y/n.”

            Kuryakin becomes almost imperceptibly stiller behind you, and the oak chair groans as his grip tightens. Knowing about his father’s disgrace, and his mother’s… exploits afterwards, you can’t help but wonder if Waverly is trying to piss him off, or is genuinely complimenting you without thinking about his agent.

            “No offense sir, but I’m not a dog, and in regards to a person’s pedigree, it is more often than not more trouble than it is worth, as I’m sure Gaby and Mr. Kuryakin would agree. Solo must be glad his reputation is his, and his alone. Even if it is a shoddy one,” you take a jab at the man behind Gaby. He keeps a straight face and refrains from a verbal row, but the indignation rolls off him in waves. You ignore it. “So,” you roll your shoulders, and tilt your head to the side, air pockets between your vertebrate popping loudly. “You have something for me to decode.”

            “Yes,” your hear the desk drawer roll along its tracks for a brief second, and then Waverly produces a rather thin (by intelligence standards, anyways) folder. He slides it across the hardwood into your waiting hand, and when you open it your fellow agent crowd around. The bewilderment on their faces, along with patterns you are already picking up in the document, has your lips curling upwards at the corners.

            “Give me twenty minutes, and a cup of coffee. Oh, and does T.H.R.U.S.H. mean anything to any of you?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact #1: I do not speak or read Russian, so when Russian text appears in fan fictions (Winter Soldier ones are my favorite :D ) I cannot pronounce the words in my head as I am reading and it throws me off. Because of this, all Russian words in this work will be written in the English alphabet, so you (and I) can get an idea of what the enunciation would be.

             “It’s not a very advanced code,” you tell them two hours and one meal later. Gaby’s stomach had rumbled monstrously about ten minutes into your deciphering of what you discovered were lists of armaments, prompting Kuryakin and Solo to immediately come to her aid and suggest you all go to dinner. They picked a high-end establishment (of course), and while the five-course meal was delicious, you are here for business, not pleasure. Gaby and Napoleon seemed to be of a different mind however, both having at least three glasses of chardonnay as you and Kuryakin looked on. This led to Solo receiving a swift quick under the table from Gaby when he commented, “Look Peril, now you have someone else to help you spoil the fun.”

            The exasperated glance you and the blond agent shared spoke more than words.

            “Hand generated, it would seem,” you carry on in the present, “which indicates one of three things. The first, and least likely considering they have already sold several shipments of weapons, is that they are too poor and disorganized to buy an electromechanical cipher machine. The second is that they are overpaying their resident cryptographer. The third, and in my opinion most probable is that this T.H.R.U.S.H. was expecting some law enforcement entity to catch on to their plans at some point, and is issuing a challenge. So I believe the ball is in your court now, sir.” You return the file to Waverly who lets, it sit out on the desk, passing the challenge from U.N.C.L.E. to its three best agents and a CIA operative.

            “And there was nothing in there about the location of this T.H.R.U.S.H. in these documents?” Solo inquires, his level head indicating he holds his alcohol quite well.

            “No, but based on the make of the paper and the typeface, it can be assumed that these packing lists originated in a developed country in the West. The Vietnamese are definitely not running the show,” you rejoin.

            “What is make of weapons?” Kuryakin interjects. It is a fair question, but one you have already considered.

            “Interestingly enough, tungsten carbide is featured in quite a few. So if I hadn’t ruled out you and your commies already, Kuryakin, I would be reporting this back to my superiors right now,” you snip.

            The Russian does not take well to your tone, rising to his full height from one of the additional chairs that had been brought to the room while the four of you wined and dined. You stay seated, and Gaby tracks him with concern as he comes to tower over you.

            “China and Russia combined have largest deposits of tungsten in world, but Canada has the next largest and fits your description, Kodirovshchik,” he sneers, distaste mauling his entire expression.

            “That would make sense,” Solo muses, sauntering up behind the Russian, “It would be much easier to base operations in a neutral territory, rather than being under the scrutiny of the warring parties. The question is, where in Canada are they based? Looking through that frozen tundra for one organization would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

            “We should locate all tungsten mines in Canada, and proceed from there,” you murmur, still ignoring Peril, who is breathing heavily as he towers over you. “Do you have any connections in the RCMP Security Service, sir?”

            “As a matter of fact, I do, Miss Teller,” Waverly responds, raising the quota of people in the room standing to three. “If you will all excuse me, I have some phone calls to make. While you wait for orders, I suggest you begin packing.” He rounds the desk, pinstripe jacket vent flaps fluttering behind him as he moves to exit.

            “Mr. Waverly,” you cause him to pause in the doorway, the light from the hall casting his stark grey on the cream colored carpet of the room you’re in, “Will you be requiring anything more from me? My superiors seemed to believe this would be a fairly short assignment, not a wild goose chase.”

            “Until further notice, y/n, your loyalty lies with U.N.C.L.E., not the CIA. Does that answer your question?”

            “No, that just tells me you’re used to getting your way, sir,” Gaby is the only one seated now, and you brush past Kuryakin as you make to follow Waverly. “It appears I need to make a phone call as well.”

           

            As it turns out, Gaby has a suitcase for you to pack all of your newly acquired outfits in.  As it also turns out, Waverly is very good at sweet talking Sanders, meaning that the outfits would not be traveling with you back to the States, but rather to the western side of Canada. The Cantung mining operation is the largest tungsten-based one in the country, making it the most likely source of the weapons-grade metal. You and your new team, however, will not be going directly to the mines, but to a small town several hours south of them, where most of the ore is processed. Its population just barely touches a thousand, and your sources (for what is an agent without a few private informants?) seem to indicate that it is about as backwoods as it gets, which of course makes you interested to see how the other team members will behave. Maybe you can pawn these dresses there for some clothing that will actually make them fit it in.

            You transfer the final dress, a green and blue number, from its bag into the suitcase, air blustering out of your mouth in a sigh as you fall onto Gaby’s bed. Your cousin is letting you stay the night in her flat not far from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, and after today’s events you are not surprised to find it to be a posh affair as well. A peach hue seems to be the staple for all the rooms, with green also featuring prominently in the living space where you will be sleeping on the couch.

            Gaby is visiting with Kuryakin, who also has a flat in the building several floors above you. According to her, he initially rented it so the two could have easy access to each other when they were in a relationship, but when it tanked, he kept it for its convenient location. You had repressed a snort when she said that, although your eyebrow jetted a mile high in disbelief. While location was definitely a factor in the Russian staying in the building, the longing in his stare at the airport today indicated that it wasn’t just U.N.C.L.E. headquarters that kept him here. The man is smitten with beautiful creature that is Gaby. Actually, you wouldn’t be all that astonished if Solo is too. The man keeps his emotions under better control than the Russian, as you know from firsthand experience, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that he is enamored with her as well.

            You finger the ends of your mousy brown hair, comparing it to your mental image of Gaby’s much more lustrous dark brown waves. She had most definitely gotten the best looks in the family. If you put the two of you side by side, the only indication of your familial relation would be the deep chocolate irises of both your eyes.

            The click of a lock startles you from your reverie, and you bolt upright on reflex. Gaby enters the room seconds later, taking in your alert expression.

            “Well, somebody’s a little overexcited,” she says placing her bag on the nightstand. You roll your eyes.

            “You would be too, if you were working on zero sleep and dealing with a time zone change.  Anyways, how was your visit with the Russian?”

            “It was fine, _Illya_ ” she emphasizes his name, “and I visit each other quite frequently between assignments.”

            “Uh huh, so torture is your thing then? Did you ever hear about what Uncle Rudi actually did –?”

            “Yes, I know all about Uncle Rudi. I’m not torturing Illya.”

            “You are from where I’m stand – er, sitting. He’s head over botinki for you,” you state the obvious, briefly wondering if no (for the most part) nonsense Solo has told her this too.

            “That does not mean we cannot be friends,” she states sharply, removing pins from her hair and placing them into a small dish with a pearl-like sheen on the vanity. “Illya knows where our boundaries are.”

            You shrug and stay silent, reaching for the suitcase nestled into the mattress. There will clearly be no convincing her on this point.

            “We talked about you, you know,” her lilting voice stalls you inches from the living room threshold. “Illya cannot decide if he likes you or not. He says he likes your spirit, but your attitude thus far is putting him off.”

            “Hmm, I didn’t know he could string more than five words together to make a sentence,” you shoot back, glancing over your shoulder to gauge her reaction.

            She tilts her head back and laughs to the ceiling.

            “That is what I think he is talking about,” she chuckles and shakes her head. “But he’ll warm up to you. If he doesn’t on his own, I will make him,” she flashes a catty grin that quickly softens, “It really is good to see you, y/n. I know we were only children when we last saw each other, but I did miss you.” Her confession tugs on your heartstrings, and you force a straight face to hide the agony her statement inflicts on you.

            “I missed you too, Gaby,” you murmur, slinking out of the room before the conversation can go any farther.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact #2: I set goals for this work in regards to hits, kudos, etc. to kind of gauge how it is doing. If a goal is met (the last one was 90 hits, and was met yesterday) I will post a new chapter within the next three days, because it means the fic is doing fairly well, and people want to read more (or at the very least, in regards to hits, my summary is interesting xD ). If the goal is not met, I will still post new chapters, they may just not come out as quickly due to the other obligations I have in my life. I'm not going to post what the goals are until after they're met however, because I want to see how the story does on its own without people being pressured into doing something they otherwise wouldn't.
> 
> Thanks to those who gave kudos! I appreciate the readership of everyone who has taken a peek at this story :)


	4. Chapter 4

            “I’m sorry ma’am, but I can only give you eight hundred dollars for all of these,” the towering shop lady in overalls and a flannel shirt looks distraught as she eyes all colorful patterns laid out before her. “Quite frankly I don’t think we have enough cash in the store to pay you full price for all of them.”

            “Oh, that’s fine,” you smile back at the woman, “I was actually thinking we could do an exchange. I need some clothes for myself and some friends, so as long as you were alright with me just picking out some outfits here and there…”

            “Of course ma’am, just pick out whatever you want and go. You’d probably have to take our entire inventory to actually match the price of these,” she holds the little pink number Gaby bought you up to the light, tilting it back and forth with a considering look in her eyes. It’s definitely too short, but then again short skirts are “in,” however impractical they may be in a small town where the average high in the summer is seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

            “Thank you,” you turn away from the register to peruse the assorted selection of clothing in the shop. “Actually,” you turn back, “Do you have any clothes for really tall, muscular guys? I mean, I’m talking like Sasquatch sized.” You rise to your tip toes and extend your arm, trying to show how tall the Red Peril really is.

            “We might, there are a few tall blokes in town whose wives stop in every once in a while. If we have any, they’ll be over there,” she points to the back corner of the shop.

            “Fantastic. Now,” you fold your hands on the counter and lean towards her, “do you have any pantsuits?”

 

            The hunter green pantsuit, despite being an odd color, is relief to wear after the miniskirt you were forced into for the plane rides. It may also hang a little loosely on your frame, but you’re fairly sure you can alter it to your size with a few stitches here and there.

            Your team had initially flown into Quebec City from London, and then without much fanfare, had switched over to a small, privately owned plane with barely enough room for the four of you, and a questionable maintenance schedule. Upon exiting said plane at the small air strip just outside of town, you opted to head for the town thrift store, leaving the other three spies to go evaluate the “vacation” cabin you were renting out.

            You aren’t surprised to find two out of three aghast when you catch up with them.

            “Ooo, look, a woodburning stove,” are your first words upon entering the cabin, “Has anybody chopped some logs?”

            They all stare at you blankly, and you’re not sure whether they’re confused at the multiple paper bags you carried here from the thrift store, or if they cannot tell if you are serious or not. The Russian is the first to move, rolling up his sleeves and heading for the back door.

            “Whoa, whoa, hey easy there Hotshot. I was joking. I already canvased the outside of this place, there’s a wood pile in the back.” You shift the bags around in your arms, grabbing one and hurling it across the room at him. “Here, have a present.”

            Kuryakin catches it with ease, unrolling the top and inspecting its contents before inserting a hand to pull out a red and black plaid flannel shirt.

            “Unfortunately for you, Peril, they had limited amounts of clothing in your size. So, I got you what I could, but you’ll have fewer options than the rest of us,” you distribute the other bags to Gaby and Solo. “Oh, and I had no idea what everybody’s shoe sizes are, so if you just head to the thrift store in town and tell Ava that you are friends mine, she’ll help you find a pair of boots.”

            “You didn’t get yourself new clothes?” Solo questions, a grin yanking at the corner of his lips as he examines a pair of jeans.

            “Right here,” you pat your borrowed suitcase, the only thing left in your grasp.

            The fierce glare that Gaby directs at you has everyone in the room find the deer antlers and taxidermy on the wall more interesting than conversation. You’re all smirking though, which is a good sign. You were mildly worried the men would also be offended by you pawning the designer clothes.

            “You traded in your new outfits for this,” she waves around one of jackets you acquired for her, “and that?” She indicates the pantsuit with a tilt of her head

            “And boots, evidently,” Solo adds, and you make to leave the room while he argues your case, “And while her choice of replacements is dubious, I would tend to agree with her that we need suitable clothing for this environment. I hear it can get quite chilly here quite suddenly.”

            “Quite chilly, quite suddenly?” you halt your march towards the hallway you assume leads to the bedrooms. “Try running an operation in the Arabian Desert, Solo, its one-hundred and fifteen Fahrenheit during the day, and below freezing at night. What you’ll experience here is nothing compared to that.” A stunned silence encompasses the room.

            “That was you?” Peril ventures, a blond eyebrow lifting itself to nearly mid-forehead. All auxiliary movement in the room ceases as the others join him in waiting for your confirmation.

            “Yeah,” you shrug awkwardly, one shoulder going higher than the other due to the weight of the suitcase. “Why?”

            “That was an impressive operation. You pissed off a lot of people,” he praises, and Solo nods in assent. He had known a U.S. agent had completed that assignment, but he was unaware it was you.

            “Uh-huh,” you are unsure how to react to Kuryakin’s words. “Well, I’m gonna go put my stuff away now,” you start creeping towards the hallway again, and then bolt for it before any more questions can be asked.

           

            “Arabian desert?” Gaby hisses to the men once the sound of the suitcase zipper echoes from down the hall. “What does that mean?”

            “It means your cousin is absolutely lethal,” Illya offers, rubbing the five o’clock shadow on his chin and shaking his head in admiration. “Who knew the little American girl had it in her?”

            “I did,” Solo grumbles. He knew from the moment he first met you all those years ago that you were much more than you appeared to be. You had your faults, and had failed some missions (what agent didn’t?), but when you succeeded, the results were either catastrophic or phenomenal, depending on which end of the gun you were looking down. You were one of the few female CIA agents he hadn’t tried to seduce during his tenure there for fear of biting the bullet. In fact, the only other he had treated with such deference was your mother.

            Illya’s smugness intensifies. It isn’t hard to follow the other man’s train of thought after working with him and Gaby for two years. He is looking forward to working with Kodirovshchik now.

            “I’ll go get firewood,” he announces, voice carrying enough that you can hear him from down the hall, and then lumbers out of the cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prize goes to Fenn for guessing that my next goal for this work was to get a comment on it. Good job! xD
> 
> A question for everyone, if you don't mind answering, is what do you think the of y/n's personality? I kind of have a picture of what I want her to be like in my head, but I'm curious as to whether or not I'm conveying it properly.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to post this. School started back up and I didn't have any time to get around to working on this. 
> 
> Enjoy!

            “I don’t recall buying that outfit for you, Peril,” you comment as you tiptoe into the living area the next morning, swaddled in the heavy blankets provided by the owner of the cabin. You were roused by the smell of food, and it doesn’t at all surprise you to find the Russian cooking bacon on the stove.

            “I brought my own clothes that are suitable for assignment, Kodirovschik,” he tells you without looking away from the sizzling meat. “Russia has similar climate to Canada, maybe even worse. I knew what to expect.”

            “And I expected gratitude,” you jest, plopping down on one of the lumpy stuffed chairs. You take a moment to readjust, curling your legs up onto to it before adding, “Do they always sleep this late?”

            He scoffs.

            “Depends on mission,” he pauses thoughtfully, the silence punctuated by the spitting grease.  “And number of women nearby.”

            You snort, an ungraceful sound that has the giant glancing over his shoulder. You meet his baby blues with a coy smile.

            “I would ask if marital status matters, but its Solo we’re talking about. Of course it doesn’t.”

            He nods, a meticulous movement, and returns his attention to the frying pan. You watch with curiosity, intrigued by how much precision he operates with today. He efficiently removes the bacon from pan to a waiting plate, and then puts some new slices on, all in a matter of five seconds. He is the most focused you have seen him since being introduced at the airport. You wonder if this is because of his newfound awareness of your skills, or because Gaby is absent from the room.

            You continue your observation for a few minutes, and draw the conclusion that his behavior is consistent with his dossier; highly focused and extremely intelligent, but emotionally unstable. Gaby’s absence is probably the cause of his change in behavior.

            You briefly entertain the thought that Waverly is unaware of how deeply affected Kuryakin is by his love for Gaby, but dismiss it. The man probably regards the team the same way one would a sitcom on the television; with amusement. And as long as the entertaining aspect of the team doesn’t affect the outcome of the missions, he could care less about their personal affairs.

            You snuggle more deeply into the blankets, ignoring the lumps beneath its softness. What kind of team have you been put on?

            You hear one of the floorboards groan as Kuryakin stalks towards you. The hissing of fat on the skillet has stopped, so he must be done cooking. Several more creaks and moans follow as he moves about the cabin, allowing you to make a mental map of his route, until the noises stop at your eight o’clock. You subtly swivel your head to face your eleven, cautious about his proximity. A ceramic plate appears in your peripheral.

            “Hungry, little American?” he intones. You consider the possible outcomes accepting his offer, and find them agreeable enough that your arm lashes out from the between the blankets like a pale snake, snatching the plate from him and bringing it to rest in front of you. You let it and your hand remain elevated in front of you until the blond giant sits down across from you and takes a bite of a particularly fatty piece of meat. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and you watch the strong, decisive way his jaw muscles move as he begins ingesting the next bite. It’s much like how he has been carrying himself the rest of the morning, and you can’t help but think that he would be a rare challenge if there were a physical altercation between the two of you.

            “It’s not poisoned. Eat,” he prompts you, snapping you out of your thoughts to meet his light blue eyes. You scowl as you return his stare, and then aggressively shrug off the blanket to completely free both arms, revealing the several layers of clothing you donned to negate the chill of the Canadian night. Not releasing his gaze, you pick up a slice of the bacon between your thumb and forefinger, and with deliberate slowness sever a piece of it from the rest with your incisors. You chew it at similar pace, narrowing your eyes at the Russian.

            “Ahem,” somebody clears their throat, and you both whirl to find Solo, fully dressed in some of clothing you acquired for him, assessing the situation.  
            “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” One dark, well-trimmed eyebrow inclines in amusement.

            “No,” you gather your wits first and reply with practiced nonchalance, “I was just making sure Kuryakin’s bacon isn’t burnt too badly. I was doubtful of the cooking skills they teach in the KGB.”

            “Uh-huh,” his gaze slides to Kuryakin, who is bristling with indignation, and then back to you. “Well, if you find his cooking unsatisfactory, I will make sure I deal with all the food preparation in the future.”

            “No,” you wave a hand to dismiss the sentiment. “He did fine. Do you have your cover memorized for today?”

            “Yes,” you proffer your plate as he strolls by, and he takes a piece, nibbling on it as he reclines on the loveseat he and Gaby were sitting on yesterday. “You are an ecologist here to determine the effects of mining operations on the environment, and Peril is your… significant other who just happens to have a penchant for the great outdoors. You two have been together for a little less than six months, and you invited his friends, Gaby and I, along in order to start getting to know us better. The two of us are from the city, so we have no idea how behave in the wilderness. Did I miss anything?”

            “Not necessarily. Just make sure you and Gaby lay on the ‘we’re in love’ act really thick. It will arouse less suspicion when you make inquiries in town today about the tungsten trade.”

            “That is not cover that was devised,” Kuryakin objects, setting down his now empty plate. “They are friends, not friends in relationship.”

            “I thought that was implied,” you respond, “Besides, it is more believable that way. Not many couples would invite two single people of the opposite gender along on trip to the middle of nowhere.”

            “Doesn’t matter, it’s not in the cover story,” he seethes. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. This is ridiculous, and is why Waverly seriously needs to take the personal lives of his team into consideration.

            “It was implied,” you grind out yet again. “Get that through your thick skull, osel. We don’t have time for your infatuation with Gaby.”

            The coffee table separating the two of you goes flying to the side as Peril rises from his seat, the ceramic plate that was on it spraying across the floor in little shards on impact. It appears your thoughts of an altercation with him may come to fruition, although now is not the optimal time for it.

            Solo intercepts his partner before he can take more than a step towards you.

            “Easy there, Peril,” his fingertips on Kuryakin’s sternum hold the Russian at a distance from himself as well as you. “I know y/n isn’t easy to get along with, but she is a good agent, and Gaby would not be happy if you hurt her favorite cousin. Let’s just calm down, so we don’t upset her, shall we?”

            After a few long seconds, Solo removes his hand, and while the Russian does not retreat, he does not advance on you either. You rise from your seat, tossing your plate into the imprint left in the cushion by your weight.

            “I’m going to wake Gaby and dress, so we can get this sorted out,” you remark. “Hopefully you’ll be able to tolerate me enough that we can at least pretend you and I are going steady by the time I retrieve her.”

            You turn your back on both them, knowingly giving Kuryakin enough time to attack from behind, and saunter to your bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who gave kudos or commented on the last chapter! As I said in my note at the beginning of the chapter, school got really hectic and I was unable to update this story. Hopefully, now that I'm out of college for a while, updates will be more regular. The next one should be posted within a week from today.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little late. I got caught up in holiday festivities and didn't have as much time to write. Thanks to PearlBee for being my first repeat commentator, I appreciate your thoughts and your feedback!

            “If you were not such a good agent, I would kill you,” Kuryakin informs you as the two of you trek through the coniferous underbrush. You are hiking to the air strip, where a plane is to pick the two of you up and take you to the Cantung mining operation. The Russian’s proclamation is the first time he has addressed you since you left the cabin, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

            “And if you weren’t so damn emotional, you would be a good agent and wouldn’t want to kill me because –  for the time being – we’re on the same side,” you snip back, pushing a spruce branch at eye level out of the way and  then quickly releasing it. A loud _fwap_ from behind you, followed by a whoosh of air leaving your partner’s lungs, somewhat satiates your festering irritation at his preoccupation with Gaby.

            “Stifling emotions is not the Russian way,” he states after a few wheezes, “We allow them to happen, and then move on.”

            “And your affection for my cousin, and thus the consequences of it, have been happening for how long now?” You spin to face him with little effort, despite the heavy  satchel you’re carrying on your left hip. A small smirk tugs at your lips as he glowers at you, brow lowered and lips pursed. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes again, and instead extend a poorly manicured hand.

            His lip curls in distaste at your offering, and you grant your eyes permission to do as they please. Illya Kuryakin, despite being convinced by Gaby that your alteration to the mission strategy is a good one, is not going to make this easy on you. Furthermore, his designs on your cousin – whom you care very much about and want to see happy – make you want to rankle him even more. But then the pot would be calling the kettle black. So instead of saying ‘Is it the dirt, or that my name isn’t Gaby?’ you soften the scornful lines of your face and fall into step with him, entwining your soft but dirty fingers with his long, calloused ones.

            “Don’t forget, Illya Kuryakin,” you murmur, your voice adopting a gentle lilt as two of you reach the edge of the pine needle detritus and approach the air strip, “for the duration of this assignment you and I are in love. So anything between us has to be just as good as, or better than, the real thing.”

            You peek up through your lashes to appraise him when he lacks an immediate reaction. The well-defined features of his face are still pulled taut in dislike, which is discouraging. Despite the fact that – or rather because – you are an accomplished spy, you have had very few dalliances with men. Most, like Solo, tend to find you intimidating or too serious, and those who don’t entertain the usually false idea that you have no idea what unsavory schemes they are involved in. The latter also tend to be less of relationships and more of seductions, and seducing a man only requires good make-up, coy looks, and touches in the right places. Suffice to say that in the other instances where you have had to be “in love,” the second half of the relationship has had to help you along quite a bit, as imitating sincere emotions has never been your strong suit.

            If Peril doesn’t play along with your act, it is going to be difficult to convince anyone that the two of you are in love, let alone even acquaintances.

            “Illya,” you yank his arm, almost losing your grip and smearing dirt across his palm. “It takes two to tango, and as we’ve just discussed I suck at emoting, but you don’t. So please, for the sake of this mission help me pretend we’re in a relationship.”

            He blinks, but refuses to look at you, and you think all is lost as you approach the lone plane on the airstrip.

            Then you start talking with the pilot, giving him your fake identification and verifying that you are indeed the ecologist he is supposed to take up to mine on his regular supply route. He says your departure is going to be delayed an hour or two because they sent only one person to load the plane today. He then promptly lifts his aviators so you can see his grey irises, gives you a wink, and adds ‘I’ll see if it I can make it go any faster,’ before heading over to help the gangly young man (teenager?) struggling to load a crate onto the small aircraft.

            Kuryakin removes his hand from yours, and winds a thick arm around your waist, pulling you face-first into his side. If looks could kill the pilot – who is now yelling at the one man loading crew instead of helping – would be in the Seventh Circle of Hell.

            You hide your smile in Kuryakin’s jacket, the faint scent of pine tickling your nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I like this chapter or not. It's a little shorter than the others, and was initially supposed to be the first part of the next chapter with goal having Illya and y/n somewhat reconcile before they get to the mine. Let me know what you guys think, and thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for not posting this sooner! See the writer's note after the chapter for more details.

          “Huh, I guess chivalry isn’t completely dead,” you quip as you eye the scene the before you with dismay. “Although whether or not its convenient and appropriate to the situation is another matter entirely.”

            You give your partner a pointed look as you kneel down near the unconscious fifty-year-old man in front of you, placing two fingers on his neck. His pulse thrums steadily beneath your fingertips.

            “You know,” you start to fish around in your satchel, “When I said to pretend we’re in love, I didn’t mean pretend I’m suddenly defenseless and that you should take out anyone who so much as looks at me.” Your hand grazes a familiar rough fabric, and you carefully extricate a small black pouch from the beneath the rest of the assorted items in your bag. You unzip it, and lay it out next to you, plucking out fresh ammo.

            You load the new tranquilizer dart into your gun, and then give a gentle tug to the bright purple feathered tail of its predecessor, removing it from the shift supervisor’s neck. You quickly cover the used syringe with a plastic cap and place it into the recently vacated spot in the pouch.

            As you stand, your eyes lock with Kuryakin’s, which are still smoldering with displeasure at the incident that just occurred. You take aim, and then pull the trigger on your tranquilizer gun a second time.

            The second dart embeds itself in the forearm of miner who was a little too vocal about the things he would like to do to you as you, your partner, and the shift supervisor – who was also your guide around the mine – walked past. One second the Russian was trailing dutifully behind you, and then you were stalking towards a choked off cry, remaining a few steps behind the shift supervisor after he told you to stay put while he investigated. When you arrived, the offending party was already unconscious, and the shift supervisor frozen in shock, unsure what to do.

            You repeat the previous process, this time stashing the gun and the pouch back in your bag.

            “Check the supervisor’s pants for the –” your command is cut off as Kuryakin jingles a key ring in his left right hand, the midday sun glinting off the brass

            “Okay, prop them up against those two trees, and make it look sloppy. With a little luck the memory loss side effect from those darts will kick in, and then we can just claim that our guide was drunk when we met up with him, and that once he and his drinking buddy met up he left us to tour the rest of the mine on our own.”

            “Or we just leave them. This one is too big to lift,” Kuryakin inclines his head to the insolent miner, who it looks like has a good few inches on Peril, now that your bother to assess him. A couple pounds as well. “Drag marks on ground will not corroborate our story.”

            “Fine. Let’s get to the office and see if we can find anything useful. We would have gotten there anyway and more inconspicuously if you’d just let tall, dark, and covered in dirt here run his mouth, though,” you gripe, still for the most part annoyed at the majority of the day’s events.

            “But now we will get there more quickly, without having to visit the rest of the site. Saves time,” the Russian gloats, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets and turning on heel back towards the small outcropping of buildings on the other rim of the mine. You take a few long strides to catch up with him, and then maintain hurried gait to match his rushed pace.

            “No, the plane is still leaving at the same time,” you inform him as you skirt dangerously close to the edge of the open-pit mine to stay in step with him, “this just means that we’ll have to spend more time in the mining town, with more miners, who will probably yell more obscene things at me. Can you handle that, Kuryakin?”

            He slows instantly, smirk fading as a Cheshire smile appears on your lips.

            “I’ll give you some time for a comeback,” you tease, and then lope few feet ahead of him as the ledge you are on narrows to the point where it can fit only one person across its width at a time. When it broadens again, the Russian returns to your side.

            “How many more darts do you have, Kodirovshchik?”

            You scoff.

            “The only way you’ll get to touch, let alone examine, one of my darts, is if its embedded in your sternum after I get sick of your emotions ‘happening,’ osel.”

            “Pfft, you know I was talking about for other miners. Besides, your little darts are not enough to take me down.”

            “Don’t tempt me, Peril,” you chastise under your breath before the two of you fall silent, your gazes surveilling the area as you swiftly and quietly approach the small brown shack that functions as a business office for the mine. Technically, most of the miners are still on their lunch breaks, so you should not have to worry about being noticed. However, both of you are too well trained to let that lull you into a false sense of security.

            When you reach the door to the building Peril removes the keys from his pocket in one deft, almost imperceptible movement. Immediately, your back is to him, and you monitor the area while he tries key after key in lock. It takes him exactly three tries before a barely audible click reaches your ears. Your gaze sweeps across the terrain once more, and then you turn and follow the lumbering giant inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for making all you lovelies wait over a year for this chapter! I know from personal experience how frustrating it can be when a writer doesn't update a work for a very long period of time when all you want to do is know what comes next. Unfortunately, my engineering classes got the better of me, so I had to focus on those and graduating before I could come back to this. Thank you all for the wonderful comments and kudos, and a special shout out to AwkwardSilence for her comment, which finally brought me back to this fic. 
> 
> Also, I want you all to know I cannot promise regular updates to this work, as I need to focus on adulting a bit more now. However, I do have more free time than when I was in classes, so hopefully I get a chapter up here and there, even if the timing is a little inconsistent. As of now I have fifteen chapters planned for this fic, and the plot is completely outlined. It's really just a matter of finding the time and the motivation to type these chapters up.
> 
> Anyways, as usual I love to hear all your thoughts on the chapter! I'm not sure how I feel about this one, as y/n and Kuryakin seem a little out of character to me, but I can't figure out how to fix it. If I do, I will definitely update this chapter if needed, with probably only a few minor tweaks. The overall tone is right, but their personalities just seem off to me. Maybe once I brush up on this story and my writing after my year long break I will figure out.
> 
> Per always, thanks for reading! :)


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